


What You Wish For

by didoandis



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Time, Fix-It, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, I'm British so's my spelling, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Really Bodyswap, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Spells & Enchantments, abilities swap, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didoandis/pseuds/didoandis
Summary: “Jaskier,” Geralt says. “How are you feeling?”He thinks about it. He’s cold, still, from the river. A bit hungry. He’s annoyed the bauk got away. He can taste the coming rain in the air, hear Geralt’s heavy, panicky breathing. He shrugs.“Oh, fuck,” Geralt says, “this is bad, this is really bad.”A thought swims slowly to the surface of Jaskier’s brain. “Am I… am I you?”Geralt’s brown eyes blink miserably at him. “I think I’m human,” he says. “So that must make you the witcher.”After the mountain, a journey through the woods forces Jaskier and Geralt to appreciate each others’ point of view – if they can survive the experience.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 130
Kudos: 1074





	What You Wish For

It starts the same way that most terrible things in Jaskier’s life start, with a combination of good fortune and bad luck. 

The good fortune is that for the first time in nearly a decade, he is close enough to Kaer Vorn to attend the yearly harvest festival; which is excellent because the prize is more coin than he’s earned in months, and there’s no way in the world he can lose. The bad luck is that while he’s close enough, the only way to get there in time is to pass direct through the Underwood – a trip of two days that no sensible person would take alone. And it’s autumn, the nights are drawing in, and everyone sane is travelling the long way round, on mostly maintained roads that pass through villages, rather than risking their necks on the dark paths through the forest.

Jaskier has been stuck in this godsawful inn in this godsawful town for a full night and day, and every group of travellers he’s tried to persuade to change route has simply laughed at him. Currently, he’s slumped on a sticky, splintery bench by the fire with a pint he can hardly afford, playing games of chance with the (few) people who enter. If it’s a man, he’ll give up. If it’s a woman, he’ll take the path. It’s a man. He thinks, _best of three?_ , gloomily, and traces a finger through the spilled ale on the table in front of him. 

He could toss a coin, of course, but for obvious reasons he’s gone off that idea lately. 

The heavy door creaks a little, letting in another gust of damp air. It’s thick oak, barred, with silver nails studded through it; this close to the Underwood, no one wants to take chances. Jaskier thinks, _man, give up, woman, forest_.

In a further sign of just how much the world wants to fuck with him right now, it’s neither. 

It’s silver hair, black armour, the faint smell of copper, and the indefinible sense of dark and cold and fear, like the warmth of the fire is only ever of limited guard against the beasts in the wood. 

Jaskier groans and lets his head fall on to the table. Of course it’s Geralt. Of _course_ it is. The one person who, maybe, would be brave enough to accompany him through the Underwood, and also the one person who absolutely won’t, since he made his feelings on Jaskier really quite clear not three months back. 

He risks lifting his eyes a little to track the witcher, and finds himself gazing at a silver belt buckle over black leather. For all that is holy, couldn’t Geralt have the decency to pretend he didn’t see him? 

He gives it up, raises his head, and looks up, and then up again. He forgot how tall Geralt was; or rather, he forgot how he loomed, like everything else shrunk slightly beside him. He and Yennefer had that in common. Suddenly Jaskier feels very small. He’s been doing his best to forget that feeling too.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, the low rumble of his voice that Jaskier thought he’d figured out, once upon a time, thought he could read for subtle traces of anger or fear or amusement. Now it’s just a voice. He waits, but apparently nothing else will be forthcoming, and he almost laughs out loud because what was he expecting? That Geralt had come on purpose? That he was going to, what, apologise? That they would kiss and make up? 

Jaskier’s a social creature, but he moves around too much to have many serious friends. He thought he and Geralt were similar in that way, if in no other; just another thing he got entirely, hilariously wrong. 

“Witcher,” he says, and stands up, letting his mouth run on automatically while the rest of him is looking around for an escape, thinking _away, away, away_. Fuck the festival and fuck the coin and thrice-fuck Geralt of fucking Rivia. In the morning he’ll join some other party of traders and head to some other town, the long way round. “What a coincidence, meeting you here. Though I suppose we’re right by the Underwood and that’s renowned for monsters so, really, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Found any dragons lately? Not that you need to tell me, I got enough out of the dwarves for a song, which I’m sure you don’t care about in the slightest, anyway, it’s been lovely, time for bed, see you around.”

He makes to move forward and Geralt sighs and says, “Jaskier,” like Jaskier is the most ridiculous human he’s ever encountered. 

That tone Jaskier does remember. It makes him want to scream, or punch Geralt, though the latter would no doubt be a foolish choice leading swiftly to unconsciousness. 

“What do you want?” he asks, abandoning any thought of pushing past him, since Geralt is clearly not budging till they’ve had some kind of conversation, even if it will be, like all their conversations, one-sided. 

“On the trail of a bauk,” Geralt says. “Lives in the shadows, eats people. Nasty. I tracked it to the forest, its lair will be in there somewhere. Innkeeper says you want to pass through the wood.”

This is possibly one of the longest speeches Geralt has ever made to him, excepting, of course, the last one. Jaskier’s so taken aback that it takes him a good minute to notice that Geralt is looking at him expectantly.

“And? So? What,” Jaskier says, and then his brain catches up with his ears and he is struck by the wholly unlikely notion that… “Geralt, are you offering to accompany me?”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, his eyes directed at something fascinating above Jaskier’s head. “Well. If my path is into the woods…”

“... then, what, we might as well travel together? Are you _mad_? Or have you forgotten the mountain, because I bloody well haven’t, and I think you made yourself perfectly clear about how much you never wanted to see me again!”

He’s mostly been hissing, but he can’t stop his voice rising, just a little, and he flushes as he realises that the rest of the inn is silent, bartender and patrons alike staring with open interest at the most unlikely sight of a bard dressed in colourful silk yelling at a man who could snap him in two without breaking a sweat. It’s probably the most interesting thing that has happened to this no-account hamlet in ages. Well. Apart from the bauk. 

Geralt’s expression hasn’t changed, but his eyes are still carefully nowhere near Jaskier’s face. “If you want to come,” he says, “I leave at dawn,” and then he turns and exits the inn, leaving nothing behind but a faint smell of blood and the chill of the door closing. 

Of course Jaskier is there at dawn. Of course he is, because he’s an idiot, and a glutton for punishment, and he really wants to win that festival coin, and did he mention that he’s an idiot? He knows Geralt’s not going to apologise. Witchers don’t apologise. But he doesn’t know what Geralt wants. Or maybe he doesn’t want anything; witchers aren’t meant to want either. Except that Geralt does, he absolutely does. Jaskier thinks sometimes that Geralt wants more than any other man he’s ever met, if only he could bring himself to admit it. 

It might be his hopeful imagination, but Jaskier could swear that Geralt relaxes, ever so slightly, when he rounds the corner to see Jaskier shivering outside the stable in the cold dawn, lute over his back, greeting Roach with an apple he stole from the kitchen in passing. Roach, at least, seems uncomplicatedly pleased to see him. 

“Hmmm,” is all Geralt says, because obviously it is; and he saddles Roach and leads her out of the hamlet without another word, barely acknowledging Jaskier’s presence. He gives up, honestly. Is this personal – is Geralt trying to make amends in his own stunted useless way? Or is he behaving in the way he denies he does, but does all the time: doing a good thing to help someone out, because he’s there, and he can?

Time was, Jaskier would have wanted to solve that puzzle. Now he just wants to get to Kaer Vorn, leave Geralt behind again, and return to the regular nomadic bardic life he’s been living for the last three months. Wine, women and song; it’s been great; he’s loved every minute of it.

Jaskier’s a terrible liar. Even to himself. It’s a problem. 

He shrugs and follows in Geralt’s footsteps. Funny how things come back to you. 

The Underwood is well named. The trees press in close overhead, blocking out any hint of sky, dripping water even though the sun was shining brightly when they left. The ground beneath their feet is deep with soggy leaf mulch. It’s not soaking through his boots yet, but he can feel the dampness pressing in. His breath fogs on the air. The whole world is moist, cold, unpleasant. 

Geralt is walking, silver sword in his hand, sniffing occasionally and peering into the shadows under fallen logs, or holes in trees. Jaskier stays three paces behind Roach, going over scales in his head. He can’t get his lute out of its case, tied on Geralt’s saddlebag since the dank air would do dreadful things to the wood; but he’s determined not to speak either. If Geralt wants to talk, Geralt can start a conversation. 

His resolve lasts at least an hour, by Jaskier’s estimation, though he’s willing to admit it might be shorter. “So,” he says. “Bauks.” 

Geralt hmms under his breath. “It killed three men, the next town along the path where they hired me,” he says. “It was living in an abandoned house on the edge of the wood. I flushed it out, but they’re sneaky. Had to double back, pick up the trail from here.” 

“What do they look like?” 

“Like shadow. Hard to see, apart from the eyes. And the teeth, of course.” 

“Of course,” Jaskier echoes, shivering a little. He peers harder around him, but everything is dark: the trees blending into one another and fading into the undergrowth. It’s still day, but it feels like night. “How d’you track them then?”

Geralt says nothing for a long while. Then, “They’re messy eaters. I can still smell the blood.” 

“Oh.” Jaskier makes a face. “Ew. That’s truly disgusting.” 

“You asked.” Geralt’s voice has that low tone that means he’s smirking a little. Jaskier almost grins in return, then remembers he’s angry, and scowls instead, falling back into silence. 

They walk. The leaf mould underfoot muffles their steps; aside from their breathing and the drip, drip, drip of water in the air, there’s barely a sound. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says eventually. 

“Mmmm?” His thoughts have drifted, seeking distraction from the damp chill on his skin. He’s going over the song he plans to sing at the festival. It’s about the loneliness of the road that calls you from your home, the lure of being alone, owing no-one, owning nothing. It’s a little bit yearning, a little bit sad, and full of show-off rhymes and repeated refrains, the kind of thing that would go down like a bucket of puke in an inn, but the judges will love it. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again. He almost sounds fond. 

“What,” Jaskier says. 

“You’re humming. Shut up.” 

“Or the bauk will get me?”

“Something will,” Geralt says. “Plenty of monsters to choose from in the Underwood.” 

Jaskier shuts up, thinking, _then why did you invite me along, Geralt, if I’m just going to make noise and cause trouble_. The anger keeps coming back. He thought he was over it, but it turns out he’d just pushed it deep down into the recesses of his mind, and now Geralt is actually here it’s rising up, burning in his blood till he wants to scream, or fight, let it out somehow. 

They pause some interminable time later, take swallows of water and a fistful of nuts (Jaskier) and deer jerky (Geralt). The witcher’s golden eyes seem fixed on Jaskier, the only point of colour in the dull world. Jaskier closes his own eyes to lessen the weight of the stare, and after a few minutes Geralt grunts and they move on. 

They’re passing along the steep banks of a river, Jaskier’s boots sliding in the mud, when Geralt stops. His whole body is tense, his eyes narrowed, sword lifted. Jaskier hasn’t seen him in months, and yet it’s like he never left. Twenty years of habit kick in and he starts to edge backwards, just as Geralt spins round to confront the solid wave of darkness pouring out from the trees. 

It’s hard to see clearly: Jaskier has a sense of fur, and claws, and shining eyes, but it moves too quickly for him to tell where it ends and the shadows of the wood begin. Geralt seems to have no such trouble, though; his sword strikes deep and the thing howls, and Jaskier takes another step backwards, having long since grown out of any desire to be heroic. 

There is no ground beneath his foot. 

He has a second to think, _oh, the river_ , before he’s falling gracelessly into the water and the shock of the cold steals his breath. It’s deeper than he thought; faster, too. He thrashes, and ice pours down his throat and into his lungs; he can’t get any purchase, can’t even see where the bank is, and his mind starts to stutter, frozen and panicked. There’s no distinction between up or down or sideways; he can’t see through the sting of the freezing water against his eyes; all he can do is shake, uselessly, as the current pulls him wherever it wants him to go. He knew he should have stayed in the inn. 

Then there’s a crash in front of him; the world convulses; he scrabbles desperately at the unforgiving hold some _thing_ has got on him, and a voice says, “Jaskier! Stop moving!” 

He stops moving, and whatever has hold of him is dragging him out of the water. He lands like a sack of sopping wet clothes in the mud, rolls over, retches silty water until his lungs ache, and then looks up into the furious face of Geralt of Rivia, his hair hanging in miserable hanks round his eyes.

“Oh that’s just brilliant,” Jaskier mutters, and passes out. 

When he wakes, it’s to the dull crackle of a fire. He’s mostly naked, wrapped in a blanket on top of a bedroll. It’s still light, though clearly not for long as the shadows are starting to darken even further. For a long moment he just stares at the canopy above him while he tries to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

It comes back slowly. The inn, the wood, the bauk, the river. Geralt. Saving him again, like some pathetic child. He blinks, feels tears hot on his chilled skin, and switches upset for anger, pulling himself up to sit. “Please tell me you at least killed that fucking thing.” 

Geralt is crouched next to the fire, wearing only a shirt and his smallclothes; his trousers and armour are hanging on a line strung between two trees next to Jaskier’s breeches and doublet. Jaskier blushes as he realises Geralt must have had to strip him. As if his day could get any more humiliating. 

“I did not,” Geralt says, punctuating the words with a stab of a stick into the fire, “kill that fucking thing. Because someone – ” _prod_ – “couldn’t look where they were going – ” _prod_ – “and had to be dragged out of a fucking river.” The final prod seems even more aggressive than the others; part of the fire collapses. Geralt sighs. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier says. He swallows back the tears. His head hurts, and his lungs feel like shit. He’s not sure why he’s so upset, maybe he’s not used to near-death incidents anymore. 

“Could you not spare a single second to pay attention to your surroundings,” Geralt growls. He’s not looking anywhere near Jaskier, which stings even worse than the words. 

“I get it, all right! I said I was sorry.” 

“Three men that thing killed, that I know of. Ripped them to shreds. If anyone else dies…” Geralt’s voice trails off. “I _can’t_ —” His tone is as cold as the river was. 

Well. That’s that, then. 

“I knew this was a bad idea,” Jaskier mutters, and gets up. He has clean clothes in his pack; he squelches through the mud to get them, puts them on, ignoring how dirty they get. At least they’re dry. His boots are soaking, but who cares, he’s endured worse. He slings the lute case over his shoulder and turns towards what he hopes is the south, back to the village. 

“What are you doing?” Geralt asks. He’s frowning. He looks puzzled. 

“What does it look like? I’m leaving.” Jaskier has the advantage; Geralt only has one set of armour, and he has to wait for it to dry before getting dressed again, even if he wanted to follow Jaskier, which he surely won’t. “Taking myself off your hands. I’m sorry about the bauk. I’m sorry about everything.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Don’t be stupid.” 

“Don’t you dare call me stupid,” Jaskier says, and starts walking. Behind him, he can hear Geralt moving around, calling his name, but he studiously ignores it.

He _is_ stupid, of course. He’s stupid for following Geralt for two decades. He’s stupid for hoping that Geralt’s offer to escort him through the wood meant something. And he’s decidedly stupid for walking off on his own, because it isn’t long before he realises two things and remembers a third. 1: He’s lost. 2: It’s dark. 3: The Underwood is full of monsters. 

“This might not be the best idea I’ve ever had,” he whispers to himself, and hears his voice fall away into the night. He can barely make out the trees any more, and every rustle in the undergrowth has his hairs stand upright, his arms tighten around himself. He can’t decide whether to stop and wait the darkness out, or try and sleep, or just keep moving. 

And then he sees the light. Just on the edge of his sight, a low glimmer, flickering through the trees. It must be Geralt, he must have got more turned around than he thought. He ponders it a minute, decides that he can grovel a little if it means living to see the sunrise, and heads towards it.

It’s not a campfire, with a surly horse and a surlier witcher beside it. It’s a candle burning in a window in a small cottage, tumbledown and half melting into the forest. 

Jaskier stares at it. 

On the one hand, it looks like no one has been near the places in decades. The wood of the walls is cracked and overgrown with moss; the thatch of the roof has started to fall in. On the other hand, who lit the candle? 

He shouldn’t go inside. No one lives in the Underwood, and if anyone did, they wouldn’t be the kind of person you’d want to meet. However. It wasn’t built by a monster, and the walls might stop any beasts who feel like having bard for dinner. 

Jaskier goes inside. 

The low candlelight shows him a ruin – a cracked mirror, covered with cobwebs. A narrow bed, covered in a ragged, decaying quilt. A shelf high on the wall next to where the candle is burning. He goes over to it, picks it up so he can examine his surroundings more carefully – and, if necessary, throw it at something and run. 

When his fingers close around the candlestick, there’s a low hum, and when he turns the cabin is entirely different. There’s a fire burning bright in the hearth; the fabric on the bed is fresh and new. The walls are sturdy, keeping out the cold winter air. The mirror shines, almost glowing silver. 

A dim, distant part of him knows he should be afraid. This is some enchantment, a place out of time. But it’s warm, and it’s still empty… Perhaps a mage lived here once, left a candle burning for their return and then never returned. Their loss. 

He hears someone call his name, out in the woods. Geralt. Following him. But why? 

He puts the candle down, and the room sinks back into dereliction. Its flame plays over the mirror. There’s something scratched in the glass and he squints at it, words shaping themselves amidst the cracks. 

_Do not ask me_

Outside, Geralt calls his name louder. “Jaskier!” He sounds a little frantic. Or angry. Should Jaskier go to him? It’s dark, and the forest is full of monsters, but he’s not sure he can take it, going to him again, getting rejected again. Geralt is just being generous. He doesn’t want Jaskier dead, that doesn’t mean the witcher wants him by his side either. 

He looks back at the mirror, traces his fingers over the scratched letters. 

_Do not ask me  
What you will  
But what you need  
I will fulfill_

What you need. Funny.

“Jaskier!” Geralt cries. He’s getting closer. 

Jaskier leans his head on the cracked mirror. _I wish I knew what you wanted_ , he thinks, and the thought is a small, sad thing. And then, _I wish you knew how I felt_. 

The candle goes out.

When he wakes, it’s to the dull crackle of a fire. He’s mostly naked, wrapped in a blanket on top of a bedroll. It’s still light, though clearly not for long as the shadows are starting to darken even further. For a long moment he just stares at the canopy above him while he tries to figure out what the fuck is going on.

It comes back slowly. The cottage. The candle. The words on the mirror. Geralt. How is he back here? 

He sits up. Geralt isn’t prodding at the fire, the way he was before. He’s lying sprawled on his side, eyes closed. He looks smaller somehow, more vulnerable. 

Jaskier moves towards him. He’s learned it’s safer not to wake Geralt up suddenly; chances are you’ll get a knife at your throat in thanks. But he doesn’t feel particularly worried about it right now. He puts his hand on the witcher’s shoulder and shakes, and Geralt’s body moves more violently under his touch than anticipated. 

Geralt blinks and stares up at him. “Where were you? I followed you – there was a light – wait—”

“Fuck,” Jaskier says, just as Geralt says, “your eyes…” He’s staring at him, confusion and panic written clearly on his face.

“Yours have gone brown,” Jaskier tells him. 

“Yours are gold,” Geralt whispers. He sounds terrified. “Jaskier, what did you do?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier says. He left the camp, found shelter. That was all, wasn’t it?

“You must have done something!” Geralt cries out and sits up, glaring. His arms cross in front of him. He’s acting like a petulant child, Jaskier thinks. It’s not like him. 

“There might’ve been a spell,” he allows, considering the candle, the cottage. What did the words on the mirror say? He can’t remember, feels it slipping away like the flickering of light on glass. 

“This is bad,” Geralt says. He stands up, makes for his clothes, throws Jaskier’s at him, which he catches easily. He puts them on, surprised at the way they feel against his skin, a little close, a little scratchy. He’s never noticed that before. Must be the river water. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, distracting him from the sensation of the cloth. “How are you feeling?” 

He thinks about it. He’s cold, still, from the river. A bit hungry. He’s annoyed the bauk got away. He can taste the coming rain in the air, hear Geralt’s heavy, panicky breathing. He shrugs. 

“Oh, fuck,” Geralt says, “this is bad, this is really bad.” He looks slightly shocked, puts a hand to his mouth as if to stop himself speaking, which would be no bad thing, Jaskier thinks. He’s making a lot of noise, they don’t want to attract attention. He’s straining to listen to the sounds of the forest, check if anything’s coming, when a blur of movement distracts him and he pivots, catches the fist before it can get near him, strikes out with his other hand. 

“Ow,” Geralt says. He’s on his knees in the mud, one hand trembling in Jaskier’s grasp, one pressed to his shoulder where Jaskier hit him. That’s… unusual. His reflexes aren’t that good. 

A thought swims slowly to the surface of his brain. “Am I… am I _you_?” 

Geralt’s brown eyes blink miserably at him. “I think I’m human,” he says. “And I guess that makes you the witcher.” 

“Huh,” Jaskier says. That’s definitely strange. Still, if it’s happened, they’ll just have to get on with things till they can figure out a way to fix it. There’s usually a way to fix spells. 

Geralt is glaring at him. Jaskier tries to explain – he left, for reasons he can’t fully remember. Found a cottage that certainly belonged to a mage. Got caught in a spell he can’t quite recall. There were words on glass, and he wanted something, but… it feels like it happened to someone else. 

In a way, he supposes it did. The man he was before isn’t the same as the one he is now; he can’t put his fingers on the difference, aside from faster reflexes and increased strength and golden eyes, but he knows there must be one. 

“Don’t you care?” Geralt asks. His voice is quite high, it’s a little aggravating. Jaskier’s not sure what he’s so upset about. 

“I’m sure it won’t last forever,” he says. 

“You should care,” Geralt says. Now his voice sounds small. “You should think it’s songworthy, or brilliant, or funny, or something. You should think _something_.” 

Jaskier considers this. It’s peculiar, he’ll admit, to be so conscious of his surroundings, the sound of the rain, the smells of the forest, but it doesn’t seem _bad_. There’s no problem here that he can see. He can tell Geralt is unhappy, which is odd, but not life-threatening. He shrugs again. “It’s getting dark,” he says. “We should rest. It might be all right by the morning. If it’s not, we can go find the place again.” 

Geralt scoffs, but doesn’t argue. It’s clear from the way he settles down – tossing and turning and muttering to himself – that he’s angry, but he doesn’t explain, and Jaskier doesn’t ask. He sits on his own bedroll. He’s not tired, exactly. He wants to rest but he doesn’t feel the need to sleep. He closes his eyes and rests his hands on his knees, and lets himself fall into a slow, quiet space where he can hear the branches swaying, and Geralt’s snores, and the far-off rustles of foxes. His thoughts drift in silence, drift in the breeze of the forest around him, rising and falling with his breath, with the slow beat of his heart. 

It’s so peaceful. He can’t remember feeling this peaceful before. He wishes it would go on forever. 

It doesn’t. Just as the sun starts to rise it’s shattered by an explosive noise and a miserable whimper that puts him on alert. He doesn’t recognise either sound, and he leaps to his feet, scanning the forest for its source.

On the bedroll, next to the last embers of the fire, Geralt is huddled around himself, shivering. He makes that small, sad whimper again, and then coughs, wretched sharp barks that break the calm of the forest and hang in the air. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Geralt!” 

Geralt sits up, coughs again, sneezes, wipes his nose and looks at his shaking snotty hand in horror. “Am I dying?” he asks. There are tears in his still-brown eyes and Jaskier feels a small twitch in his chest in response. 

He considers the question. He recognises the symptoms. He just hasn’t seen them on Geralt before. “I think you have a cold,” he says. 

“Witchers don’t get colds,” Geralt protests. The tip of his nose is pink. It’s enough to make Jaskier smile, but he doesn’t. 

“Humans do,” he points out. “And you seem to be human at the moment.”

“I don’t like it,” Geralt says. He sounds cross, sulky, and sad, all at the same time. It’s quite impressive. Like a balancing act, Jaskier thinks. It must be tiring, having to deal with all those feelings simultaneously. “I feel terrible. And it’s so noisy.”

Jaskier listens, confused. He can hear the forest, but that’s all. “No it isn’t.”

Geralt snarls at him. “I don’t mean outside. I mean in here!” He points at his head. “There are all these thoughts and they don’t last for more than five seconds and there are other thoughts underneath them happening at the same time and also music and it’s like a ball of tangled wool, how do you know where one thing stops and another begins! It’s exhausting!” 

“I think that’s just humans too,” Jaskier says slowly. It sounds familiar, anyway. “Or maybe just me, if this is a… transfer of some kind. You’ll probably get used to it.” 

“I don’t _want_ to get used to it,” Geralt says angrily. “We should find that fucking cottage and figure out what you did and get us back to normal.” 

Jaskier gets up and goes to where Geralt is lying, sweaty and unhappy. He can feel the heat rising from his body from two paces away. When he kneels down, a hand on his forehead confirms it; he’s burning up. 

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “You’re sick.” He looks around them, gets his bearings. If he goes back south, he can be in the village they started from in a few hours. It’s still early. He can find a healer, come back, make Geralt better and then retrace his steps to the cottage. “You stay here with Roach. I’ll go get some medicine, and then we can work on the spell.”

“That’s a terrible plan,” Geralt tells him. The words are contradicted by the fact that he immediately starts coughing like he’s going to lose a lung, and ends up curled into himself, shivering enough that Jaskier can hear one of his knives rattling in its sheath. 

“Tough,” Jaskier says and stands up. He’s energised, satisfied with the ease with which he moves, the lack of any aches after a night in the open. He will walk, and he knows there will be no blisters, no need to rest. He can’t understand why Geralt is so grumpy all the time, if this is how his body feels.”I’ll be back as soon as I can. It’s daylight, should be safe enough.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. His eyes are wide open, slightly feverish. Jaskier can’t quite get over the colour of them, the deep rich brown that seems to pull the light in rather than reflect it. He thinks, _he’s beautiful_ , and startles. He wasn’t aware of that thought. He knows he believes it, but still – it came out of nowhere. He pushes it away. 

“Yes,” he says. “What?” 

“Take the swords,” Geralt tells him. “Just in case.” His flushed face is oddly solemn. 

Jaskier frowns, but then, he supposes, he is a witcher now. He probably ought to have swords. He goes to fetch them, shrugs into Geralt’s harness, which is a little big, but not too bad. The swords feel comforting on his back, a bit like the lute, though balanced differently. He frowns again. That’s the first time he’s thought about his lute. That doesn’t seem right. 

But when he thinks about it more, pictures himself tuning the strings and starting to sing, it’s like a reflection at the bottom of a well, too far away to reach and not worth bothering with. He moves his shoulders to shift the weight of the swords more comfortably, touches Geralt’s shoulder in farewell, and starts walking. 

The walk is quiet. Both in the forest, and in his head. The peace he felt after waking has stuck with him, as if he’s nothing but a body moving, no troubling interruptions to the steady rhythm of his steps. He could tell someone the exact position of every rock around him, identify every noise, catalogue the smells, if they asked. But there’s no one there to ask. There’s a faint unease, somewhere in his gut, that suggests something is awry, that he ought to want to do something else with all this information, something louder and showier. It’s like – the world is well shaped around him, and yet he has an urge to shape it into something else. But he can’t think what, exactly, and so lets it go, lets the smells and sounds and sights flow through him and focuses on the journey. 

He pushes his pace as fast as he can go, thinking of Geralt back at their camp, alone and vulnerable without his witcher’s strength. He’s still not sure how he triggered the spell, if indeed he triggered the spell. His memories shift when he grasps at them, and in the end he decides to let them rest. It’s like hunting – sometimes you have to let the prey relax and re-emerge before striking. 

The village, though, is exactly as he remembers it: a small, mean place, slumped at the edge of the wood, muddy roads and dingy houses. It exists because there’s a crossroads and people have to stop somewhere, but it doesn’t seem to revel in hospitality. 

He finds the healer’s shop easy enough – the place isn’t big enough to get lost in, and the few stores are all lined up on the same street as the tavern. The healer glares at him throughout the interaction, but Jaskier doesn’t think much of it. He’s a sour shrivelled old man, seems offended that Jaskier gets to the point instead of making conversation. He doesn’t have time for conversation, though. He needs to get back to Geralt. 

He’s on his way back to the forest, passing the last houses, when five men emerge from the tavern at the edge of the village. It’s barely noon, but he can smell the ale on their breath. He slows, his muscles tensing as if at a threat. 

“I told you there was another fucking witcher!” one of them cries out. He’s the burliest of the men, presumably the leader; he’s holding a poker in his left hand. Jaskier stops entirely. His fingers twitch, wanting to unsheathe his sword. 

“He’s dressed like the bard,” one of the others protests. They’re all drunk, all angry; their eyes bright, their breath gusting clouds in the cold air. 

“Yellow eyes, two swords,” the first man says. “Tell me that’s not a witcher.” 

Jaskier wonders about saying ‘temporarily’ but he doesn’t think confusing them will help the situation. He says, “I don’t want trouble.” 

“You don’t fucking want trouble,” a third man says. “Tell that to the man the bauk dragged to his death last night. You were meant to kill it!” 

Ah, _fuck_ , Jaskier thinks. He got in Geralt’s way yesterday and caused some weird magic and in the meantime the beast has taken another life. All his fault. He feels it like iron in his gut, black and cold. “And I will,” he says. “I’m on its trail again.” 

He is, when he stops to think about it. He can taste the copper tang of blood on the air. 

“You don’t give a shit!” the third man says. “Tomasz was my brother and now he’s dead!” 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier tells them. He is. He can’t convey how much he is, the words are too heavy for his tongue. “I’ll kill it.” He squares his shoulders, starts walking. He doesn’t think they’ll attack him. They’re angry, and upset, but he doesn’t think they’re stupid. They understand they’re no match for a witcher. 

They might be a match for someone who has only been a witcher for a morning, but they don’t know that. 

He has to pass by them, quite close. He can see, smell, taste, the fear and loathing as he nears. They’d kill him if they could. It stings his eyes, he chokes on it. The hatred. It hurts worse than any pain he can remember. 

One of them spits on the ground as he goes. He mutters, “I’ll finish the job.” Doesn’t look behind him.

The first stone hits one of the swords. The second hits low in his back. The third hits his head, drawing blood, he can feel it warm on the skin of his neck. He keeps walking. 

The rage is like a fire. He could turn around, he could draw his sword, he could gut them, spill their entrails into the earth like the animal they think him to be. That’s what they expect. Why disappoint them? He wants to do it. He wants them to die. He wants…

Jaskier shudders, shakes his head. _No_. Witchers don’t kill humans. Not for being afraid and ignorant. Not because they can. 

And that’s not what he wants, not truly. The anger he’s feeling, the impulse to hack and slash and destroy. It’s not about them. It’s like a pit has opened up inside him and he has to fill it with something, with some strong emotion, because if not… 

_If not, what?_

He’s not sure. But he thinks it would be bad. 

Back at the camp, Geralt has re-lit the fire. He still looks miserable: pale and sweaty, his cheeks flushed. When he hears Jaskier approach, his face lights up with relief, then collapses back down into sullen. “I can’t do igni,” he says. “Took fucking ages to light the fire, I can’t believe how boring it is waiting. I can’t believe how boring today has been all round, no one to talk to, nothing to do and I keep fucking _coughing_ —”

He breaks off to cough. Jaskier says, “maybe you should talk less.” 

“Oh fuck you, now you know how I feel,” Geralt says. “I can’t fucking shut up, there are too many words in my head. I feel terrible. Do you always feel this terrible when you’re ill? I don’t know how humans stand it.” 

“Hmmm,” Jaskier says, because why not, and Geralt glares at him. Then looks closer. 

“Did something happen?” he asks. 

Jaskier busies himself pouring water into a pan, and kneels down to heat it on the fire. 

“Talk to me,” Geralt says. “Something happened.” He’s watching Jaskier carefully. Jaskier rolls his shoulders, takes the swords off, lays them down. 

“The bauk took a man from the village last night,” he says. “His friends weren’t too happy to see a witcher who hadn’t finished the job.” 

The silence stretches. “Did they… did they hurt you?” Geralt asks. 

“Of course not,” Jaskier scoffs. “And if they did, it wouldn’t matter, would it?” 

“It matters,” Geralt says, hoarsely. 

“It doesn’t matter when it’s you,” Jaskier tells him, mixing the powdered willow bark he bought from the healer into the boiling water, “so it doesn’t matter when it’s me.” 

Geralt makes an incoherent noise, fury and pain, but doesn’t argue. “We’ll find your cottage, we’ll fix this mess, and then I’ll kill it, Jaskier, I promise.” 

“No,” Jaskier says. He pours the remedy into a cup and hands it to Geralt, his fingers shaking slightly when he lowers them back to his thighs. Geralt sits up on his bedroll to drink. He’s still watching him. Jaskier wishes he’d look away. 

“No?” 

“We can’t wait that long,” Jaskier tells him. He keeps his eyes on the fire, not on Geralt, doesn’t want to see the disappointment he knows is waiting for him there. “The bauk’s scent is fresh now but it won’t last much longer. I’m going to hunt it.” 

“You can’t,” Geralt says. “You’re not a witcher. It’s not just the strength, I’ve had years of training, muscle memory… You won’t be able to do it.” 

“Thanks,” Jaskier says. 

Geralt lets out a frustrated noise and throws his arms into the air. “You’re not listening!” he yells. “I can’t play the lute, even if I keep hearing music in my head now; I don’t have the skills! The spell isn’t good enough to replicate decades of experience!”

“It killed someone last night,” Jaskier hisses, rounding on Geralt, glaring back. “That’s _my fault_. I got in your way, I let it get away. I may not be a witcher but I’m the closest thing around.” 

The pit is opening up inside him again. Dark, deep. All the times he’s failed, all the people he’s let down. The only thing that can fill it is finishing the job. 

“What if you die,” Geralt says. It looks like he’s got tears in his eyes, but that can’t be real. 

“Then I die,” Jaskier tells him. He stands up and looks round for the swords. “Aren’t you always telling me witchers don’t retire?”

“Please don’t do this,” Geralt pleads. “I’m sorry, all right? I’m sorry I didn’t kill it yesterday, and I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe, and I’m sorry for what I said on the mountain. I was upset and sometimes it’s easier to be angry than upset, but I didn’t think it’d hurt you so much. I didn’t think you’d actually leave.” He breaks off, wheezing, and the wheezes turn into coughs. 

Jaskier waits until he subsides. He fixes the harness to his back, takes out the silver sword and holds it lightly in his hand. “I waited with Roach for a day,” he says. “I thought you’d come back. But you didn’t. So I left.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. Shocked, a little sad. “I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jaskier says. “I don’t have feelings at the moment anyway, right? I don’t care. I just want to kill this fucking bauk.” 

“I was lying, about not having feelings. You know I was lying. It’s just… It’s just easier to say they don’t exist because if you don’t have the words, if you can’t _explain_ —”

“It doesn’t matter!” Jaskier shouts. 

Geralt looks up at him, pale, still a little sweaty. Still beautiful. Jaskier hates that he’s still beautiful. “You have feelings,” Geralt says. “You have to pay attention, that’s all. They’re deeper. Slower. I didn’t realise what it was like for you, to have them all right on the surface, right there all the time. I thought how you acted didn’t mean anything because how could it mean anything if it was so obvious? So easy?” 

Jaskier laughs. He doesn’t mean to. It just comes up from under, years of frustration expelled in a burst of air. “As if any of this was ever easy,” he says. “I’m going. Don’t try and follow me.”

Geralt makes a plaintive noise, barely there. 

“Goodbye, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “I’ll come back if I can. I’m not that much like you.” 

The scent of blood hangs in the air like a red trail, almost visible. He can track it easily. He focuses on the copper smell, the sounds of the forest, his own heartbeat, rather than remembering the betrayed look in Geralt’s eyes as he left. 

Jaskier doesn’t need Geralt; and Geralt doesn’t want Jaskier; and that’s all there is to it.

In the meantime he has a bauk to kill. 

The evening is drawing in, and the shadows are lengthening, and the smell of blood is getting stronger. He’s been walking for about half an hour and he can tell he’s getting close, can sense something wrong in the air around him, waiting for him. 

He tightens his grip on Geralt’s silver sword and takes another step forwards. 

One minute there’s nothing, the next there’s blackness coalescing around him, fur and teeth and shining eyes, surging towards him in a stuttery notion that is entirely unnatural. 

Before all this, before the spell, he saw the bauk as an undefined mass; now, with a witcher’s eyes and instincts, he can see the shape of it, flickering in and out of reality. It’s as if they both exist in some heightened realm where time runs differently. He shakes his head, lifts the sword to attack and then the bauk is on him. 

It’s wounded – a darker blackness spilling from somewhere in its body – and he thrusts the sword deeper in, feels the beast recoil and scream. The sound seems half real, half not; it rings in his ears and shakes the ground beneath his feet and he stumbles for only a moment, but a moment is enough. 

He hears it first: the rip of cloth and flesh, a sick wet tear. And then the pain comes, bright and cold as the moonlight on the sword, and he’s falling, curled around the burning in his side. He looks up. The bauk hovers over him, featureless, gleeful. He manages a half-hearted strike up, cuts another line in the beast’s dark mass, but the movement pulls so hard at his own wound that there’s hardly any force behind the blow and he knows it’s not enough. 

The bauk’s red eyes blink at him with a vague sense of curiosity. It extends a clawed tendril and presses it into Jaskier’s shoulder, pulls it down across his chest, spilling blood and sharp agony as it goes, so all-consuming he can’t even scream. He chokes as he tries to breathe, hears the air in his lungs come out in a thin, mindless wail, and closes his eyes. 

This is it, then. Never mind. 

And then the bauk bursts like a cloud breaking into rain, foul-smelling black liquid soaking him to the skin, and in the space it leaves behind he sees Geralt, pale and lost-looking, holding a silver dagger. 

Jaskier’s flesh burns cold where the remnants of the bauk landed on him, but distantly, like the pain is taking a long time to reach him. He says, “I told you not to follow me,” though he can’t be sure the words come out clearly through the high-pitched whine in his ears. 

“Now you know how I feel,” Geralt tells him, from a far-away place. Then he presses both hands down on Jaskier’s shoulder and the world vanishes like a light being blown out. 

He’s getting tired of waking up on the ground. 

It’s worse this time. The cold has seeped into him; he feels like a statue made of marble, except for a bright heat in his side, his chest, that sends pain through him with every beat of his heart. 

The only other warm place is one of his hands. He blinks to look at it, and sees that it’s clasped in between Geralt’s, who is kneeling by his side, mouth moving silently. 

“G’lt,” he manages, and Geralt looks down at him, smiles a little shakily.

“You’re awake,” he says. 

“Feel like shit,” Jaskier tells him. His eyes are sliding closed again; it’s easier in the dark, he can breathe in and out with the throbbing agony and not think too hard about anything else. 

“The bauk got you pretty badly,” Geralt whispers. “Jaskier. Can you remember how you found the cottage?” 

The words don’t make any sense, the sounds falling apart as he tries to understand. He can’t think. He can’t think.

He’s wounded. So. There’s a fix for that, isn’t there? It shouldn’t be so bad, he shouldn’t hurt so much. “Potion?” he mumbles. 

He hears Geralt’s head shake, the noise of his hair shifting against his skin. “You’re not healing,” he says. “Whatever the spell is – it can’t give you mutagens. You’re not really a witcher, not where it counts. A potion would just kill you faster.” 

Makes sense, Jaskier supposes. Shame, though, since that likely means he’s dying. He tries to take a deeper breath, and the pain washes through him, leaving him stranded, drifting somewhere. 

Geralt keeps saying his name. He listens to that for a while, to the increasing desperation in Geralt’s voice, until he has the strength to speak again. 

“There was… a light,” he says. “I followed it.” 

“To the cottage? Jaskier, pay attention. Where is it?”

“South,” he says. “I think. Was trying to get… the village. But it was dark, and… monsters… and then there was shelter. And a mirror.” 

It’s too much talking, but Geralt has one hand wrapped around his, and the other stroking his hair away from his forehead, and it’s… nice… so he keeps going. “Words,” he says. “On the glass. Something about… needing things.” 

What did he need? He can’t remember. It’s hard, thinking. His thoughts move so slowly. He lies there, caught between the spikes of pain and the soothing movements of Geralt’s fingers pushing back against them, and waits for the answer to come. 

Geralt is murmuring to himself. Jaskier can only hear half of what he’s saying; sound fades when the pain hits, and it’s so difficult to concentrate, stranded as he is at some great distance from his body. “I can’t leave you,” Geralt is saying, or maybe it’s _don’t leave me_ ; either way, the words are so mournful that Jaskier can hardly bear to listen. He’s never heard that note in Geralt’s voice before. 

His chest is on fire, and he retreats from it, imagines himself travelling somewhere deep and cool and far away inside his own mind. It’s so peaceful down there. Empty. But no – there’s something in that space with him. Several somethings, large and slow and almost dormant. Like looking down over the side of a ship into the ocean and seeing the shape of a creature there, huge beyond imagining, turning slowly and almost lost in the waves. He struggles for breath, reaches out in his own mind, tries to _understand_ —

There’s pain, he can feel that: dull and constant and tinged with red. Something dark, too, like a well falling further away, drawing in all light and sound. Fear, perhaps, or loneliness, something that whispers _not enough, never enough_ , and hard by it a cold taste of metal, of blood, of anger at a world that pushes him away, throws stones, has no time or tolerance or forgiveness. 

He’s almost crying now, despairing; it’s so all-consuming, so sad, no wonder he doesn’t pay attention to the depths of himself, no wonder he grunts and straps his armour on and keeps moving and never stops to feel. If he did, he’d drown. 

But just as he thinks to turn away, to return to the pain of his conscious mind which is so much easier to bear than the pain at the heart of him, he becomes aware of something else. It’s quieter, maybe, but no less large. Maybe it’s the largest of all, encompassing everything, almost too big to see. The flickering of a fire on a cold night. The smell of leather and sweat. The sharp taste of chaos, gathering like ozone after rain. Music and laughter. It’s warm and light and patient and kind and equally overwhelming but he doesn’t run. He stays with it. He pays attention. 

He opens his eyes to see Geralt looking at him, pale and scared. His fingers are trembling on Jaskier’s cheek. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says. “I love you.” And he tries to move his hand, to wipe away the pain and terror on Geralt’s face, but he’s forgotten the wound, and agony roars through him and everything just _stops_ —

He comes awake to rain. No, not rain. Something else. 

Geralt is crying. Jaskier knows there’s something terribly wrong about that, but it’s all so distant, now. He can’t bring himself to care. 

“Please,” Geralt says. There are tears on his face. Some of them are landing on Jaskier, running into his mouth as he pants, trying and failing to catch a breath, again, again. The salt is sharp, and where it hits the cuts on his lips it tastes sour, like blood. “I never knew how to say it, before, Jaskier, I was too scared to say it, I don’t have the words for this, but I can’t lose you, I can’t. Please don’t die, I only just got you back. You’re mine, and I didn’t know how to say it, and you won’t even forgive me. You can’t die without forgiving me. You can’t die without knowing that I need you.”

It’s so hard, Jaskier thinks. Too hard. With the pain, heavy, and the want in him buried deep. Like rolling a stone uphill. He doesn’t have the strength. But he thinks Geralt would, and he’s… Geralt now, in a way, so maybe he has the strength after all. Just to take that one step further. 

He breathes in, like drawing a knife into his lungs; breathes out, and the world is going dark at the edges, but he can still see Geralt’s face, his tears, his desperate brown eyes. 

“Shut up,” he says. “Of course I forgive you.” He blinks, and when he lifts his lids it’s the hardest thing he’s ever done, like moving a mountain. “Of course I know.” 

And then the stone rolls down again and everything is dark and distant and full of pain. 

Except somewhere, on the fringes of sight, he thinks he sees a candle burning. 

When he wakes again, it’s to the dull crackle of a fire. He’s mostly naked, wrapped in a blanket on top of a bedroll. It’s getting light, the sun rising over the trees. For a long moment he just stares at the canopy above him while he tries to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

This all seems terribly familiar. The bauk. The pain. A candle. _Geralt_.

He surges up to sitting, then falls halfway back when a wet cough rips through his chest and he chokes on his own breath. 

“You’re awake,” Geralt says. He’s squatting by the fire, a cup in his hand. He passes it over. “Drink this.”

Jaskier sniffs it suspiciously, but can’t really smell anything through a horrendously blocked nose. He can’t smell much at all, which feels odd for some reason. He drinks it anyway, and looks back into Geralt’s golden eyes, which are staring at him with unmistakable fondness. 

“You gave me your cold,” he says accusingly. 

“You gave me your sucking chest wound,” Geralt tells him, standing up, wincing slightly. “I think we’re even.” 

“Oh, you get those all the time,” Jaskier says, flipping a hand dismissively. “I can’t have a cold, it’ll ruin my voice! Geralt, what happens if I lose my voice?”

“A grateful world will thank me,” Geralt says, his voice flat, the corners of his lips quirking upwards. 

Jaskier collapses back on the bedroll and puts his arm over his eyes. _Rude_. He stays there, not wanting to look at Geralt when he says: “But you’re all right, then. We’re all right.” 

“The cottage appeared,” Geralt says. “Gave me what I needed. A fix.” 

Jaskier groans. Ugh. _Magic_. He remembers now. Wanting to know what Geralt wanted. Wanting Geralt to know how he felt. Mortifying. Except… Well. He recalls the press of Geralt’s fingers on his face, Geralt weeping over him. It’s possibly the most romantic thing he could have imagined. 

He sits up again. “So,” he says. “Er.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Lost for words, bard?” 

“Never!” Jaskier protests. “Just. Um. What now?” 

“Back to town,” Geralt says. “I collected the bauk’s teeth, should be no issue with payment. You’ll want to get dressed.” 

“Yes,” Jaskier agrees, faintly. So… they’re not talking about it. Typical. Fine. Let’s just pretend it was all a fever dream. Let’s just carry on for another _twenty years_ not even saying the word friend, let alone anything else. 

He gets up, pulls his clothes on sulkily, which are at least finally mostly dry. There’s a tear all down his shirt, gaping open when he tucks it in, and he pauses for a while, looking at it, at the black blood staining the edges. 

“Geralt,” he says. 

“Mmmm?”

He turns, and Geralt is standing right in front of him, eyes opaque. He can remember, just about, how it felt to not feel, or rather, to have feelings so all-encompassing he had to let them rest for fear of drowning. Back in his own true mind, he recognises his thoughts as quicksilver darting things, there one minute, chasing something else the next. Except for one thing, one person, one feeling holding steady for decades. 

“I think you saved my life,” Jaskier says. He lifts his hand, tentatively, and Geralt takes it, brings it to his face. 

“Well,” Geralt says, “I guess that makes us even too.” He pulls Jaskier to him. Jaskier goes. 

The kiss is not at all what he imagined and everything he imagined: slow and deep and aching with need and too much and not enough all at the same time. He whines when Geralt breaks it off, says, “gods, you’ll devour me,” kisses him again. He could do this forever. 

Geralt holds his shoulders, pushes him away gently. “Town, Jaskier. I love you, but I’m not fucking you in the Underwood.” 

Jaskier goes a bit dizzy for a moment. Geralt. _Fucking_. “You love me,” he says, and lets it warm him through. 

“Apparently I do,” Geralt says. “It was all I could think about. You’re exhausting. How can you be so horny _all the time_.”

“It’s not my fault you’re impossibly slow to see what you’re missing,” Jaskier says happily. “Come on then.” He finishes getting dressed, sneezes a couple of times, hugs his lute – his _lute_ , how could he neglect his darling so badly – and packs his things away. Geralt saddles Roach, and starts to lead her west. 

They walk through the Underwood side by side, and Jaskier hums under his breath and lets joy fill him crown to toes. 

In town, Geralt goes to take the bauk’s teeth to the alderman, and Jaskier haggles for a room and a bath, assuring the landlady that one bed will be just fine. Negotiations done, he sits in the tavern and orders two bowls of stew, both of which he eats. He’s ravenous, he realises; he’s not sure he ate anything in the last two days. It never seemed pressing. If that’s what it’s like for Geralt all the time – barely noticing when he’s hungry or cold or upset – no wonder he has the emotional awareness of a block of wood. 

No matter. Jaskier can do it for both of them. 

When Geralt joins him, he orders two more meals and watches fondly as the witcher inhales them. Everything in him is ringing, like a struck bell, but for once in his life he’s in no rush. 

“I am sorry,” Geralt mutters into the second bowl. “About the mountain.” 

“Darling, I know,” Jaskier tells him. “I knew then. Why d’you think I waited? I was sure you didn’t mean it until a day passed and you didn’t show, and then I thought. Well. Then I thought maybe I was wrong.” 

“I was too angry,” Geralt says. “I had to stay away. I didn’t think—” He breaks off, frowning. 

“I’ve followed you for half my life,” Jaskier points out. “Did you really believe I’d stop just because you had a tantrum?”

Geralt’s lips curve into a slightly confused smile. Anger, Jaskier thinks, and pain, and loneliness, and desire, all so tightly packed into his mind, all liable to overcome the other feelings and not let go. So much there to untangle. But in this, as in nothing else in his life ever, he can be patient. He already has been, after all. 

“Come on,” he says. “There’s a bath waiting.” 

Upstairs, Jaskier watches as Geralt strips, a sight that has never got old: the faded scars crossing lean muscled flesh, the red raised lines of the healing wound that Jaskier received from the bauk. He winces a little when he sees them – he must have near been ripped apart – and focuses instead on the curve of Geralt’s arse, the flex as he climbs into the tub by the fire. He can look as much as he likes, now. He’s _allowed_. 

“You joining me?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier flushes, hurries to take his own clothes off and sink into the water. Geralt takes him by the hips and pulls him flush; Jaskier’s back against Geralt’s chest; their thighs touching. Jaskier sighs and relaxes, and Geralt angles his chin forward to rest on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“I heard talk at the alderman’s house,” he says. “There’s word that Nilfgaard will march on Cintra.”

“Mmm?” Jaskier says, not really paying attention, caught up in the warmth and comfort of the water, of Geralt’s skin against his. Then— “Oh. No. Geralt, _no_. You can’t have a – a – an emotional awakening and immediately run off to do something you should have done years ago!” 

“I think,” Geralt says uncomfortably, “that I need to make sure she’s safe.” 

“Well of course you do,” Jaskier says. “I’ve been saying that for ages.” He sighs, tips his head to try and see Geralt’s face. “Will you let me come with you?”

“Could be dangerous.”

“Isn’t it always?” Jaskier demands, and Geralt shifts so that his mouth is pressed into Jaskier’s neck, his words muffled when he speaks.

“You almost _died_.” His voice is raw, mournful, and Jaskier remembers the look on his face as he knelt in the woods. 

“... Fine,” Jaskier says. “But I’m going to stay put somewhere, all right? I’ll go to Oxenfurt, and when you’re done, whatever happens, send word and I’ll come to find you.” 

“I promise,” Geralt tells him, and starts to stroke through Jaskier’s hair, teasing out the mud and the blood and the tangles. It’s lovely. Jaskier lets himself drift for a moment. 

“But you won’t leave today,” he checks, and feels Geralt shake his head above him. 

“Not today,” he says. 

“And—” Jaskier pauses, not sure how to say the next thing, but sure that he should. “It’s all right, about Yennefer. I mean, it’s all right if you love her.” 

Geralt exhales. “I think I do,” he says. “I don’t know. It feels real. But I thought you hated her.”

“Oh I did,” Jaskier explains, splashing a little as he gesticulates. “I was jealous as sin. But I know you’ve got enough feeling for both of us, now, so I don’t mind as much. As long as I get to have this too.”

Geralt makes a low noise in his throat. “You can have anything you want,” he says, voice rough, and Jaskier presses back against him. 

“I’m going to hold you to that,” he says. 

They stay in the bath till the water turns tepid, untangle only reluctantly, dry off in the sheets. Jaskier feels oddly self-conscious, overcome with the knowledge of Geralt, naked, right there, that he gets to look, to touch. He doesn’t know where to start, stands staring, until Geralt _hmmms_ at him, amused, and picks Jaskier up bodily to throw him on the bed.

“You brute,” Jaskier announces, “see what I have to put up with, you have no sense of ceremony— _mmmph_ – ” cutting off as Geralt lies on top of him, rests his weight on his elbows, and kisses him soft and deep. “Never mind, I take it all back, don’t stop.” 

Geralt doesn’t stop. Geralt kisses him, taking his time, till Jaskier’s half hard and entirely lost in pleasure, and then he moves to trail more kisses down Jaskier’s chest, his nipples, bending to take Jaskier’s cock in his mouth. Jaskier clutches his shoulders, nails digging in, and feels Geralt’s soft huff of laughter around his flesh. 

“Please,” he begs, “please fuck me. Please.” 

“Since you asked so nicely,” Geralt says. He turns Jaskier over, cradling him with one arm, and picks up the bottle of oil on the bed beside them, gets his fingers slicked and reaches down to tease at Jaskier’s entrance. Jaskier arches back into Geralt’s chest – it’s so long since he’s done this, he feels desperate, greedy for it – and Geralt pushes the fingers of his spare hand into Jaskier’s mouth, pressing his tongue down, muffling the whimpers and moans he can’t help releasing as Geralt slowly opens him up, slowly slides in. 

He goes inch by inch, rocking forward, pausing, again, waiting, gentle and slow until Jaskier’s consumed by it, the stretch and burn and _want_ of it. Geralt’s fingers in his mouth, Geralt’s cock in his arse, he’s so warm, so full, the two of them joined, motionless, suspended in time. 

Jaskier gasps and Geralt breathes into the back of his neck, and starts moving again, so slowly that when he hits the spot inside Jaskier has time to feel pleasure pulse through his entire body. 

He’s so hard he can barely feel it, rutting against the sheets, and as Geralt speeds up he moves his hand to circle Jaskier’s cock. There’s no part of him left open, untouched, unclaimed, as Geralt thrusts and Jaskier pushes into his hand, sucks on his fingers, eyes closed, no longer certain where either of their bodies starts and ends. 

Geralt comes first, and Jaskier follows him with a final tug on his cock a moment later, and the world slips away into a haze of heat and happiness. 

When he comes back to himself, he’s lying on his back, and Geralt is tucked against him, head on his shoulder, an arm and a leg over his body, keeping him close. 

“Lost for words again?”

“Never,” Jaskier says, turns on his side to look into Geralt’s eyes, his beautiful face that most people would consider a perfect blank, but Jaskier knows better. “Just nothing much to say, for once, except this: I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

Geralt closes his eyes, shy almost, presses their foreheads together. “I know,” he says. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t say it before,” Jaskier says. “I truly didn’t think I could be more obvious. With the following you around, and the hair washing, and the songs – gods, Geralt, the _songs_ —”

“The songs?” Geralt asks, suspicious, a little horrified, and Jaskier kisses him, and laughs into his mouth, and kisses him some more. 

The next morning, as Geralt leaves, Jaskier stands at the door of the inn, his lute over his back, Geralt’s promise still in his ears: Geralt will tell him where to go, and Jaskier will find him. He raises his hand to Geralt, then rests it on his chest, where his heart beats regular and fast and in perfect harmony with the witcher’s slower pace, until they meet again.

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first Witcher story I started, and the idea lured me into writing in this fandom and posting fiction for the very first time, so while it took a weirdly long time to finish, I’m grateful to it. That may explain why it's so soft.
> 
> Purely for my own amusement, the song Jaskier was planning to sing at the festival is _Like a Rolling Stone_.


End file.
